DRIFT FROM A WRECK.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1313, 29 April 1897, Page 21

DRIFT FROM A WRECK.

A. NEW ZEALAND SKETCH. Most of the coastal country above Kekerangu has the geological formation peculiar to New Zealand. With the exception of the rounded, tussock hills,- the country is scarped and terraced and cornered, as though a gigantic system of earth works were in progress there ages and ages ago, and left unfinished before the object became apparent. Many of the bluffs facing the sea have Jhe appearance of the end of an unfinished railway embankment, sodded, or covered with black fern and tussock. Rugged back of the cliffs with bits of V-shaped sea seen here and there down through the gaps and gorges, from the hill tracks, and seeming but a mile or so away; but beware of a New Zealand “short cut” to the beach—you might scramble and climb half a day, and be lucky if you get back to the orthodox track before dark. It’s bad policy to try short cuts down there. We’ve tried ’em. A lot of this country is called “ plains.” I forget the name of the plains, but recollect that I did rather more climbing and scrambling there, and also used more of the current Australian language, than in the hill country. Probably it’s called plain for an Irish reason, or because a wellmeaning scientific ass came along with instruments at one time and found this of the earth’s surface a trifle less up and down than the rest. In Australia the average “Out Back” lake is, most of the time, a flat and seemingly elevated patch of sand, mulga and coarse dry tussocks; the “hills” are cut off pretty level at the base, and you’d have to find the bed of the “river” with a spirit level —or, failing that, a pint of water in a flat-bottomed dish, or on a strip of bark. These things are apt to make a man a trifle discontented with life at first, but he soon settles down to take things including hills, rivers and lakes—as they don’t come. The.coach takes you down along under the dark bluffs, where there is just room for the road between the bases of them and the beach—black sand or rock ribbed—and round a corner of the terraced heights into

the h&rrbw valley of the Kekerangu i Rivet—Where the clear nioiintaiii torrent 1 spreads cut bn the beach and is licked up by the sea, of slips in under the rollers, and .you can almost cross the river dryshod; if you watch the rollers and run. You go past the homestead —an oblong ’ two-storied building, between the road and the sea, with verandahs and balconies round the front and sides, and having a rather bleak appearance ; past the post and telegraph office—a little cottage back in a garden with a tall double totara telegraph pole in front, braced and stayed, for it is an “ angle ” or, rather, a terminus pole, as I have cause to remember, having helped to hump and set it up; then you come to a white gate, at the corner of the station store, between the homestead and the shearing sheds and yards, oh the rivet bank. Just outside this gate, to the left hand, is a little square P-rass-e-rown. and surrounded by

a fence of split posts, roughly trimmed, and wires, with the inevitable barbed wire running round the top ; and bounded on the lefc by the station store —the usual •oblong galvanised iron structure set on a bevelled base dr cement and coated with dark-red hematite paint —on tbe right by a chaff store, and with the station schoolkouse for a background. There seems nothing peculiar about this plot of ground when you are coming the other way ; there are two gtims growing in one end of it: ono trim-looking and flourishing—typical of the Australian gum transplanted to New Zealand and growing under favourable conditions —and the other gaunt and ragged the first one’s wife, perhaps—typical of the Australian gum at home. I saw five black stockings hanging ori the top wire at- the back, and suggestive of a sixth fallen in the grass, and over against them a pair of serviceablel-ooking moleskin trousers, hanging on a wire of their own stretched between a tree and the corner of the schooihouse. But perhaps the first thing to catch your eye as you open the gate is a wooden slab, shaped and set up like the headstone of a grave, whereon is written or chiselled in plain block letters the inscription

There is always a humorous point aome= where connected with a tragedy, or iu the telling of it—bilt We only see it aftetWardA They still tell of the wreck of the Taiaroa, down there on tho bieak sou’-easter-swept coast by the mouth of the Clarence : How this was the Clarence and this was Cape Campbell and this Wellington light—(illustrating with a forefinger, pip©, or pocket-knife, on the table, or a stick in the dust) —and bow, if they’d kept straight cn the course they were steering they’d have hit the centre pile of the Clarence bridge ; which they didn’t —probably because of a couple of miles of shingle and solid ground between the bridge and the sea. One interesting identity seemed so taken with the centre - pile point of the yarn, and brought his finger down so hard on the imaginary spot, and straightened himself up so triumphantly when he came to it, that we took more than a passing interest in that particular pile when we crossed th« bridge later on. The joker of our party suggested that it would be interesting to consider, supposing the ship had struck the bridge, who would be responsible for the damage—the shipping company, the bridge contractors, or the Government; and then he proceeded to spread himself out and enlarge on the possibilities. But we suppressed him, and gave the old identity and his admirers to understand that our .friend was a bit peculiar, but perfectly harmless.

Of course, there are different versions of the story of the wreck, and opinions differ as to the cause of it. Some blamed the weather, some the compass, some put it down to the act of God, some held the captain or officers responsible, and some the man at the wheel. Thera was a racing crowd on board, going down to Christchurch to the races, and card-playing and drinking in the saloon; so some put the disaster down to general hilarity. It doesn’t matter now. I have to thank Mr White, post aad telegraph master at Kekerangu, for most of the points in this account, and any discrepancy must bo charged to the eccentricities of the writer’s memory. But insomuch as no two mortals can agree in their accounts of an adventure in which they have both participated, and within ten minutes of the actual occurrence, my ten-year-old version is probably as good as any.

’Twas a bad night, and no doubt the man at the wheel cursed the weather—or the company, maybe, if he were a Union man —and wished that his trick at the wheel was up. Perhaps he thought of his wife, if ho had one; or his children, if he had any ; or his of sweetheart; or of his loneliness, if ho had none to love in this world, as he steered straight for the centre pile of the Clarence bridge at the rate of seven pounds per month, or whatever the wages may have been then.

Thera were about a hundred men at work on the bridge, and ’tis said that the whole or the ship’s company might have been saved had rockets been sent up cr had the bridge hands seen the signals if they iverc made. Thov also say that all hands would have been safe had they stuck to the ship, for the bridge men walked down under her bows next morn-

ing—Wheii the tidfi Was otit, and the sea J babbled and smiled, satisfied with its wdrk j —and a monkey was found on board alive. 1 But the might-have-been is a more than useless quantity, though it is always raked up by sympathetic ghouls after a wreck —especially the wreck of a life. The Taiaroa came to grief iu the shadow of the great Tararua wreck, down South, whose people stayed aboard and were lost, and no doubt the Taiaroa people had this in their minds. They say that one j of the mates of the Taiaroa was sent off in a boat to examine the coast and try to find a landing place, and that he reported a bluff where there was no bluff, but, even in this case, he could scarcely have been blamed, for - there are bluffs to b© seen everywhere on a dark night. An attempt was made to land in one of the ship’s lifeboats. Thi3 boat overturned several tiiiie3 and lost all her oars, and, not ' having a bailer, was swamped. Tho only man who landed alive was one McQuarters (a torpedo-man being transferred from Wellington to Lyttelton); he was met close to the homestead with only a shirt on, and was not able to make a statement until

several days afterwards. He said, with that eloquent, straightforward simplicity peculiar to the narratives of shipwrecked J men; that as the poor fello'ws died from exposure in the boat, the sight so “troubled ” those that were alive that he threw the bodies overboard; with the exception of that of the mate, who succumbed to the bitter cold just before the boat struck tho b9acb. Meanwhile another boat rowed up the coast and up the river to Blenheim, where they landed at cho wharf and walked up the’street With the news of the wreck.

You might imagine it; that wild night ten years ago, and the days afterwards. The station hands riding hard under the bluffs and over the bleak tussock hills, with news of a wx-eck. The watch on tho beach and the search along tho coast. And, “There he is, God help us! Jim. Bring a rope.” And Unknown rises and falls on the southern swell, wrapped iu cerement:: of long, fleshy sea-weed, and drifts ashore slowly —so slowly—there was lots of time as far as concerned Unknown; the unusual lights about the station ; the little dark groups about the buildings, or in the middle of the road, talking in hushed tones, and watching and waiting. And above all, the tap, tap, tap, of the carpenter’s hammer, as he works far into the night, making coffins with the rough materials at his command, but making them well, no doubt.

The graveyard of the wreck of the Taiaroa at Kekerangu has a rather sinister record. I believe it was consecrated about 1860. Thirteen are buried there, including three from the wreck of the ' T 'aiaroa. Of these, a young girl >vas killed by falling over a bluff; a man slipped in the frozen snow and fell down a precipice ; a boy of thirteen died frbm exposure in A snow storm ; and tlio three from exposure in the Taiaroa’s lifeboat; tho other seven died natural deaths.

The inscription on the slabs over the Taiaroa graves are “ Martin —Fireman,” “ Fireman —Unknown,” and “ Unknown,” with the vessel’s name and the date under the name in each case. It will be seen that there are two unknowns buried there —the fireman who was not identified, and the other who didn’t belong to the ship, whose occupation or station in life was not known, and whose only address was the sea.

It would be difficult to analyse the feelings of an impressionable stranger brought face to face with the inscription on the slab at’ tlie head of Unknown’s grave. You have a vague sort of feeling that you might have known him, poor chap—that he might have been an old mate of yours dropped out of sight long ~ago ; Under similar circumstances, I think the first thought of a mother who had lost a son in that wreck would be that Unknown was her son.

Perhaps Unknown’s mother was a gentle old lady, far away in England. Perhaps she is waiting for him still —waiting and grieving and watching and hoping against all, as mothers do. Perhaps he had. a drunken father or mother, who beat him and-starved him and drove him from home. Who knows? The mother might be living m a den in Little Bourke Street in company with a bottle of gin and a bundle of rags—what time she is not being run in and fined forty shillings or a month for riotous behaviour. Rest in Peace, Unknown!

He was a passenger, and supposed to be the owner of tho monkey that was found alive on the wreck. They were not sure about the name of the fireman, and set him down as unknown also —the body was very much disfigured about the face, and mutilated by sharks. Unknown No. 2 had some adventures after death, poor fellow; he was at first supposed to be the mate having the mate’s papers in his sock —and was actually shipped aboard one of the steamers attending the wreck, to be taken down to Dunedin to be buried with hi« friends —brrt the steward identified thbody of the mate, which was not disfigured, having been found in tho boat; and s j Unknown was taken ashore again and buried, and he might have been forgotten and his grave lost —for the was neglected, and slops were thrown there, and carpets beaten, until the station hands clubbed together and fenced it in and put it in repair, and put up new “ shingles ” for Unknown and his sleeping partners.

By the way, when the school house was being built, there was much doubt as to the position of an old grave. They had a vague aversion to teaching the young idea how to shoot over the bones of a possible ancestor the Maoris have a decided prejudice that way, I believe —so inquiries were made and gave rise to conflicting

testimony, of course ; opinions clashed, and tlie case was argued long and often, and , loudly on occasion, and, more than once, I I believe; and work was neglected and morals suffered. But the oldest resident triumphed in the end, as that ancient prevaricator generally does, and the site was fixed according to his information or misinformation, and the school built. But now the majority has it that a back bedroom is directly over the grave, which must be an uncomfortable possibility to the mind of the stray guest who camps there for one night, and has the popular prejudice against sleeping on graves. Speaking of bedrooms they have made one of the deckhouse of the Taiaroa attached to the end of the accommodation house at the mouth of the Clarence, below the I bridge.

The Kekerangu people cherish a little anecdote to tLie effect that a son of Erin chanced to find a lady’s boot amongst the articles washed ashore from the wreck, and offered a reward of what he called “five lovely leaves" (by which he was understood to mean five one-pound notes) for the fellow of the boot. He wanted to make his sweetheart a present of the for he thought it would fetch ” her. I am not certain as to whether it brought her 3r not X have a faint recollection of having been told that it did. But that recollection is dimmed by another faint recollection of having been told that she “fetched" him with both boots —and with remarkably good aim.

But the cold, pale winter sunlight is fading from the peaks of the Kaikouras, the valley grows misty, and the bit of V-shaped see blurrs into the darkening bluffs. A stout, dark-bearded man, with string round his legs, has taken down the moleskins aforesaid and examined them with satisfied approval and taken them in, and a woman comes out and gathers in the stockings not forgetting the one that fell in the grass. And we must leave Unknown and his quiet company to their long rest, and go our way towards our own. Henry Lawson.